Multa in muliebrem levitatem cœpit jactare. Quam facile adamarent. Quam cito etiam Philorum obliviscerentur. Nullamque esse feminam tam pudicam, quæ non peregrina usque ad furorem averteretur.
CHAPTER LIII.
Of the same school, and not improbably a proselyte to the same doctrines, was
H— M— W—.
What and how great a contrast is exhibited between this female’s first appearance on the theatre of the public, and her last fatal ending! Lively, elegant, accomplished, and agreeable, of pleasing person, simple and gentle manners, without pride, or asserting any pretensions to distinction, she received the respect and attention of many of the most considerable persons in this country, both for talent and for rank. What is she now? If she lives, (and whether she does or not, few know, and nobody cares) she is a wanderer—an exile, unnoticed and unknown.
The moment that the torch of anarchy was displayed from the turrets of the Thuilleries, she caught the flame, and, as it were by magic, the form of every thing was changed to the visual ray of her understanding. She forgot the lessons of her youth, despised the precepts of her early instructors, and forsook the land of her forefathers. The perfectibility of man, the rights of women, the cap of liberty, alone occupied and overpowered her mind. She must needs go where alone these fascinating idols received the culture and the homage which in her imagination they deserved. To France then she hurried, connected herself instantaneously with the great tragedians of the day, was initiated in their mysteries, and adopted the whole of their gipsy jargon. She became in every particular a French woman. Nothing was in her eyes fair, or wise, or great, or good, but what was French; and as for poor old England, its inhabitants, and its manners, nothing could be more paltry—nothing more contemptible.
Her friend, Mrs. W. had taught her, by her example, that female modesty might be laid aside without any compunctious visitations; and, like her prototype, she formed an attachment to a Frenchman, who in Paris was generally considered as a spy of the police; even if he did not sometimes perform in a far less honourable character. This man had a wife living at the time, and Miss W. probably knew it; but this opposed but a trifling obstacle. The morality which then prevailed in the French metropolis, found a very convenient confederate in the facility with which divorces were obtained. But it is far from certain, that even this slight ceremony was observed. Be this as it may, under this paramour’s benignant auspices, she wrote about France, its politics, its new-fangled manners, Robespierre, and Danton, and Marat, and all that Stygian crew, with unrestrained volubility; and with a presumptuousness and impertinence, a determination to palliate and excuse the horrid atrocities she had witnessed, such as to excite a mixture of contempt and resentment.
Perhaps the following may be exhibited as an accurate epitome of her creed at this period, (we say at this period) for if she yet lives, she must be a greater fool than we think her, to persist in some of the articles of her political faith:—
“The guilt of the unfortunate king was clear.”—“The horrid murders and massacres were partial evils.”—“The French Revolution was destined to break the fetters of mankind throughout the world.”
This and far worse garbage than this, was the reader compelled to wade through in the various publications of this perverted writer.
All this is wondrous pitiful, but pity ’tis, ’tis true. When accident first introduced our Sexagenarian to H. M. W. she was young and lovely, ingenuous and innocent. By the proper exercise of her talents, she might have been an ornament to society, and useful to the world. Her decline of life might have tranquilly been passed under the shadow of her own vine, honoured and beloved. If she exists, she can have no other reflections but those which must be truly mortifying. She cannot fail now to be sensible, that she deserted substance for shadow, real liberty for ideal dreams about its phantom, a long list of honourable friends, comprehending some of the fairest names among us—for whom?—for Mrs. W., Thomas Paine, Danton, for her friend, or her lover, or her husband, (by whichever name she wishes him to be distinguished) for Ramond, Madame Roland, O’Connor, Santerre, &c. &c. To finish in a word, she exchanged the prospect of honourable fame, for neglect and contempt.
There still remain a few more of this class of females, with whom an introduction took place, by the means of common friends engaged in literary pursuits. It may be as well to bring them together and get rid of them at once. Recollection does not regard them with complacency. Indeed, they were so amiable on first acquaintance, (and if the expression may be allowed, they so degenerated afterwards) that memory is oppressed with looking back upon them.
Another disciple of this fantastic school was—
M— H—,
who really, when first known, appeared lively, ingenuous, innocent, and interesting. It is not pretended to say who or what perverted her principles, but she was a friend of the Wolstoncroft, a follower of Helvetius, and a great admirer of Rousseau.
As ill luck would have it, she must needs write a novel, and as her evil genius prompted, was induced to publish it. What thinkest thou, gentle reader, was the outline of the story? Why this:—
The heroine, Emma Courtney Hight, falls in love, desperately in love, with a youth whom she had never seen; at length, she encounters him—worse and worse!—Passion now boils over, and she exercises every female artifice to captivate his affection in return. But it will not do; all her efforts prove ineffectual. What’s next to be done? Why take him by storm; or, which is much the same thing, she voluntarily offers herself to live with him as his mistress.
But this will not do: his heart proves made of impenetrable stuff, at length, the heroine, compelled by dire necessity, marries, contrary to her inclination, a man she dislikes exceedingly. But still she retains her first passion; and what is more, disregarding the obligations of duty imposed by her new character, she attends on his dying bed, the man for whom she first suffered love. The consequence is almost ludicrously disastrous:—the husband attaches himself to a female domestic, and to conclude and complete the catastrophe, he finally shoots himself through the head.
But after all, things might have been yet worse, with respect to this same M. H. She might, like her friends, Mesdames W. and H. M. W. have emigrated to France, and disgraced herself and her country.
She had the prudence to stay at home. She might have written other still more mischievous, and still more foolish things. It pleased Providence to remove her, and, as we earnestly hope to forgive her.
Some greater degree of reserve is felt necessary in speaking of
Miss P—.
The personal acquaintance, on the part of the Sexagenarian, with this most prolific author, was but slight; but he ever and invariably expressed the most unaffected regret, that one so endowed, so qualified to contribute to the improvement of others, should, by pursuing one undeviating path, have made herself generally obnoxious, to those alone excepted, who considered all as deserving of the burning fiery furnace, who did not fall prostrate before the shrine of Bonaparte, and adore the Briarean Idol of the French Revolution.
The most extraordinary thing, with respect to each and every one of these doughty females, appears to have been this:—The very moment that they had made up their minds to acknowledge the wisdom of the French Revolution, the goodness of its leaders, and the felicity of its operation, they fancied themselves (as by some magic charm, some irresistible power of enchantment) converted into grave, subtle, and profound politicians. They knew every thing which was involved in the great questions of law, and right, and equity, as it were by intuition, and they pronounced their fiats ex Cathedra, as if it were both impious and treasonable at all to question their wisdom, their knowledge, and their sagacity. They became all at once, in their own foolish conceits, as subtle as Machiavel, profound as Vattel, learned as Selden, and capable as Grotius himself, to discuss the momentous question de Jure Belli at Paris.
Oh for the good old times! when females were satisfied with feminine employments, with cultivating their minds so far as to enable them to instruct their children in useful learning only, and to regulate their families with judicious economy; to learn those graces and that demeanour, which obtained and secured love and esteem, nor suffered the Laban images of foreign vanities to contaminate their tents. Daughters of England, be not beguiled; be assured that the study of politics is not essential to female accomplishments, that the possession of this Machiavelian knowledge will neither make you better mothers, wives, or friends; that to obtain it, a long life, severe study, and the most laborious investigation, are indispensably necessary. Must it not excite the strongest emotions of contempt, to hear pert misses, just escaped from boarding-schools, harangue in a more peremptory language than Selden would have assumed, and with the slightest reading, and most superficial knowledge, presume to pass judgment on the political rights and conditions of nations?
Miss P. was one of the daughters of a venerable clergyman, who was, at the same time, Master of a College at Cambridge, and Prebendary of N—. It may therefore be presumed, though nothing at all is known of the matter, that her education was in every respect correct, and consistent with her sphere of life.
On the death of her parents, and at the accursed crisis of the French Revolution, she came to the metropolis. Here she immediately, with unreserved confidence, threw herself into the kindred arms of H. M. W. divided her enthusiasm, and partook of all her follies. France, France, France! Liberty, Liberty, Liberty! occupied their waking thoughts, and disturbed their midnight dreams. In a word, they became totally Frenchified; and as Free-masons, when once initiated into their mysteries, retain the Shibboleth, which admits them beyond the Tyler, so did these females suffer themselves to be so intoxicated with the Circean draught, that the phrenzy remained incurable and unalterable. They determined to drink at the fountain-head, so up and away for Paris. We have heard of the Englishman at Paris, his prodigality and folly, but heaven bless us! our English women at Paris beat their countrymen hollow, or, to use a homely phrase, “out and out.”
“Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, if there be any praise.”
This emphatical and beautiful apostrophe of the apostle, in the judgment of this lady and her clan, could alone be applied to the French nation, under the benign influence of the Revolution, and to the Polar star of all who exercised the supreme authority in France from Robespierre to Bonaparte.
According to the sagacious and candid inferences of these subtle and profound Female Machiavels, in this country of England there was no wisdom, no foresight, no justice, and no public virtue; whilst on the opposite side, the murders of the King, Queen, Princess Elizabeth, and the Duke d’Enghein, were acts either of fair retribution, or of unavoidable necessity; either the just consequences of the imbecility of the sufferers, or provoked by their profligacy and crimes.
Reader, is not all this truly lamentable? Far other emotions are awakened by the recollection of what this female, immediately under review, once was, when she appeared as a candidate for honourable fame in the general walks of literature. Her talents claimed respect—her diligence deserved praise. The variety of her information, and the extent of her knowledge, particularly of languages, qualified her to be useful, and entitled her to esteem.
Whether she subsequently repented of and restrained the extreme extravagance of her prejudices; whether Bonaparte, his glory, his wisdom, his magnanimity, his religion, and his clemency, (and, for all these qualities he had this lady’s praise) continued to any protracted period the objects of her fond idolatry, could not possibly be known to him, from whose collection the materials, which appear, in these pages, have been extracted. It is hoped that she may have seen the error of her ways; have discovered a less dangerous and obstructed path, and auspiciously pursued it.